Summersong
by Wimpole Street
Summary: One life as the Boy-Who-Lived. A second life as the cursed Stark of Winterfell. How does one measure the achievements of a life? Through glory or through failure? Through magic or through swords? Although the players of the game have shifted, the rules remain the same. And when you play the Game of Thrones, you win... or you die.


_**Summersong**_

 **Summary:** One life as the Boy-Who-Lived. A second life as the cursed Stark of Winterfell. How does one measure the achievements of a life? Through glory or through failure? Through magic or through swords? Although the players of the game have shifted, the rules remain the same. And when you play the Game of Thrones, you win... or you die.

 **Warning(s):** Swearing, sexual references, and violent scenarios.

 **Rating:** M

 **Verse:** HP/GOT Crossover

 **Genre:** Adventure/General

* * *

 **"Chapter One"**

" _ **When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die."**_

 _ **-Cersei Lannister-**_

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 **B** ran Stark was a special boy. A special boy about whom many whispers in the wind wondered, recounting tales of great but terrible things.

All his life, Bran had known that he was different from his siblings. The North knew that Lord Eddard Stark regarded all four of his children with palpable affection, but rumours about the youngest pervaded the realm like the stench of decay. No amount of parcelled praises and solemn smiles could obfuscate the blood-drenched tales about Bran Stark. Villagers whispered about that terrible night three years ago, weaving a tapestry of darkness and fear around the boy. Even Bran's green eyes were unnerving to the smallfolk, so unlike the Tully blue and Stark grey of his siblings'.

Being the youngest of his family was not an easy task for Bran, but he stomached his position about as well as any eleven year-old could have. How could he complain? After all, his sister Arya never showed any enmity towards him, and the servants at Winterfell possessed enough tact not to gawk at him openly. Ever since that unpleasant incident at his ninth nameday, even his brother Robb treated him with stiff politeness, although Bran wished that Robb would laugh and play with him, as he did with Domeric Bolton.

Bran didn't need to speak about Sansa, for Sansa would never speak about him. Some wounds were too deep to cauterise.

On the morning of the King Robert's arrival, Sansa was once again ignoring Bran across the dining table. When Bran sat next to Arya, Sansa shuffled in her seat and turned to murmur something in Jeyne Poole's ear. Neither girl said anything to Bran, who frankly didn't mind their pointed cold-shouldering. Like songbirds, both of them had spoke sweetly but had nothing of substance to offer in conversation. Bran preferred to talk to his _other_ sister instead.

Arya poked at her breakfast, from which wafted the scent of stewed vegetables and roasted meat. She shovelled a spoonful into her mouth, as she started talking to Bran.

"Do you think that the Imp really drinks more than his own body weight?" Arya asked, her mouth muffled with mutton. "Septa Mordane won't answer my questions: she only cares about needlework and the stupid histories of the realm. None of the interesting stuff."

Bran grinned at Arya. "The 'stupid' histories of the realm? Surely the Septa's lessons aren't _that_ bad."

"You never had to sit there and listen to her drone about the Targaryens," said Arya grumpily. "She has the storytelling skills of a stunted mule, and if she describes one more 'good deed' from 'Good Queen Alysanne', I might fall to sleep and never wake up."

"I think Septa Mordane is a fine teacher," declared Sansa suddenly; her tone was pretty but precise. "Just because you'd rather play swords than learn to be a lady doesn't mean Septa Mordane's stories are _boring_."

"There's nothing wrong with a bit of swordplay!"

"Yes, there is," said Sansa. "You're a girl, Arya, not a wildling boy."

Next to Sansa, Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel - daughters of the Winterfell household and friends of Sansa - bobbed their heads and nodded, as though Sansa were speaking the holy truth of the Seven. While Arya's ears reddened at the insult, Bran squeezed her wrist and pressed her with an entreating look. _Don't respond_ , Bran thought. _Don't respond to Sansa's baiting, Arya._

Arya was not one to sit idly, though. She stabbed a carrot with her fork, before throwing Sansa a stinging scowl. The edges of Arya's grey eyes narrowed.

"Stop telling me what to do!" Arya said, standing up. "Stop trying to be Mother."

At that last word, the atmosphere of the table dropped into a wintry chill. A whip of dread and guilt coiled in Bran's stomach, and Bran dropped his gaze away from everybody's eyesight. Without raising his eyes, Bran could feel the tension which congealed around the dining table like fresh blood. _Mother_ … The very term was almost taboo within Winterfell. Lord Eddard had all but forbidden her name, as though speaking it would invoke shadows and ghosts from a wallowed past.

Almost unbidden, a familiar phrase percolated through Bran's mind, like a wisp of a distant memory: _It does not do to dwell on dreams, and forget to live_.

More courteous than her master-at-arms father, Beth Cassel broke the awkward silence by pointing out that Robb and Lord Eddard had entered the hall. The two of them made a striking pair. Compared with Robb's auburn hair and fair skin, Ned Stark wore a glum countenance which reminded most onlookers of a funereal statue. Indeed, Lord Eddard's long face and flint-like eyes commanded respect, while Robb's lighter colouring and angular features was reminiscent of a light-footed prince from one of Sansa's fables, Bran thought. No matter how much he emulated his solemn father in mannerism and form, Robb would always carry a Tully appearance.

 _A boy rather than a man,_ Bran decided, as Robb trailed behind their father.

"I've received word that the Royal Party is approaching the gates," said his father, clearing his voice. "They will arrive within the hour, and I hope everybody could be ready to receive them within the next few moments."

"Is Prince Joffrey as handsome as the mummers say?" asked Sansa.

Behind Lord Eddard, Robb snorted. "More pretty than handsome, I hear. The southron prince isn't exactly a man."

"You're lying," Sansa gasped. "Take that back! Stop slandering Prince Joff."

"A lie implies that a kernel of truth doesn't lie at the heart of the matter," said Robb blithely. "And don't shoot the raven just for sending you a true message."

When Sansa twitched in her chair with tangible vexation, Bran disguised his burble of laughter as a loud cough. Arya had no such compunctions, though. Her grey eyes widened when she giggled, and peals of joy burst out of her like a symphony of bells. Robb winked at Arya; Sansa harrumphed.

"Robb, that's enough: the Royal Family are our lieges, and we should pay them the respect that they deserve," said Ned Stark, although he didn't sound quite as disapproving as his actual words.

Indeed, Lord Eddard's sober expression cracked with the slightest hint of a smile. Bran noticed his father collect his bearings, schooling his face back into a stoic expression; Lord Eddard left the hall with a long stride, and Robb followed with nary a look at Bran. Not that Bran agonised over his older brother's aloofness. After a while, certain circumstances became norms, and life marched onward like the beating thrum of war. Bran shrugged to himself, before he sprinted to the courtyard. Whenever Bran felt crestfallen, he had one particular pastime which lifted his spirits: climbing.

Outside, the rooftops of Winterfell loomed over Bran, who smiled and vaulted over a stack of chaff. Scaling the silver cobbles of the western wall, Bran hopped from one stone to another, upon which the last of the morning moss gleamed like the gloaming. The first fingers of winter crept across the gargoyles, and as Bran climbed towards the gables, he could watch the entirety of his ancestral home prepare for King Robert's arrival. While the weavers and their wives stitched together the fur coats for colder climates, cooks in the glass greenhouse plucked carrots and potatoes from their roots. A feast for a king needed to be made, after all.

Perching on a parapet of stone, Bran took advantage of the panoramic views. He could trace a journey from the solitude of the godswood to the broken tower and even to the small sept that his father had built for his lady wife. Old Nan spoke of Catelyn Tully and the outsider religion that she had brought to the North. Unlike the Northerners and their homage to the Old Gods within the land itself, the Tullys of Riverrun adhered to the Faith of the Seven, whose New Gods resonated with the Andals. A sept had no place in the home of the Starks, through whom ran the blood of the First Men.

But Catelyn Tully was special, according to Old Nan. She was the exception to the rule, the ember in the ashes. For her, Lord Eddard Stark broke his precious tradition, and with her, he had created a small alcove of happiness even in the bitter cold. _But then the song ended_ , Bran remembered; his heart shuddered. _I ended the song of summer that could've lasted longer and longer._

The sept itself was now a charred ruin. What happened that dark and terrible night could not be repaired. Three bodies were buried, and three years had failed to heal the wounds of Bran's family.

"Open the gates! Make way for King Robert of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men."

The proclamation accompanied trumpets and the canter of horses. When the portcullis rose, a procession of guardsmen and bannermen flowed through the gates like a burgeoning brook. High above the mounted horses flew the flags of the crowned stag, which Bran recognised as the sigil of House Baratheon. The wash of gold and black enveloped the courtyard: burnished copper danced in the borean sunlight, and scores of armour trooped over Winterfell soil.

While Bran leapt over portico and descended from the turrets, he sighted his sister Arya scramble through the gaggle of Winterfell servants who had congregated near the Royal Party. Crammed under a filched helmet, Arya's pleated, brown hair was askew, as she peered through jostling elbows. The mood was kinetic. Bran snorted when Arya perked up like a direwolf pup upon seeing the knights' gilded weapons. Despite her technical status as the _older_ sibling, Arya had a childlike wonder for swords that surpassed Bran's own enthusiasm.

Mud smudging on her periwinkle gown, Arya had managed to nudge herself to the front of the crowd, when Bran treaded across a partition, jumped, and landed next to her with a neat plop. Startled, Arya grimaced at Bran.

"Hey, don't surprise me like that," said Arya, poking Bran in the arm.

Sheepish, Bran craned his neck. "Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"You shouldn't climb so high up, or else Father might get angry," Arya said quietly. "One of these days, you might have a big fall."

"You only fall if you don't know what you're doing," was Bran's reply.

Arya did not respond because something else had fixated her attention. Following Arya's eyes, Bran squinted at the centre of the Royal Party, which had settled close to the milk-white cloaks of the Kingsguard. It was an oblong carriage, with crimson shutters and lacquered wood, the expensive kind from the Arbor's tall trees according to Maester Luwin's books. Whoever was inside that wheelhouse had to be somebody of great importance. Indeed, Bran observed the sigil of a rearing lion, emblazoned above the spokes of the carriage.

 _House Lannister of Casterly Rock_ , remembered Bran. _That must be the Queen and her family._

Answering Bran's guess, a beautiful woman in a burgundy dress stepped out of the wheelhouse. She was a spectacle to behold. From her blonde tresses and rose-tinted lips to her high cheekbones and her svelte figure, the woman possessed delicate features that belied her acerbic demeanour. A brilliant pair of emerald eyes glanced over Winterfell, before they flashed with dim disdain. The golden hairnet arrayed over her head identified the lady as Cersei Lannister, Robert's queen.

Queen Cersei wrinkled her nose in disgust, as though she had smelled something rotten. After the lady and her retinue exited the wheelhouse, a stout man at the head of the procession dismounted from his horse and massaged his enormous stomach. It was a minor miracle that the horse had survived the man's monstrous weight: ranging from his flapping jowls to his ballooning double-chin, the nobleman possessed more casements of fat than the prized hogs in Winterfell's pens. Although the man wore bejeweled silks and a scintillating crown, nothing could mask his many years of overindulgence.

Everybody, including Bran's father, bowed down to the noble. At that moment, Bran realised that this boar of a man was Robert Baratheon, _the King_ of Westeros. Reflexively, Bran buckled down with respect; Arya did the same beside him.

"Ned!" bellowed King Robert. "Where the seven hells have you been? Why haven't you bothered to visit me in King's Landing?"

Bran's father rose up. Befitting his station as Warden of the North, Lord Eddard was swathed in a rich cape comprised of multiple wolf-pelts. All of the Starks, even Arya, wore their finest clothes for this royal occasion. Not every day did Winterfell host the King of Westeros.

"Ten years since we smashed that squid against his own castle," said the king. "And you don't show your face even once? What were you busy doing?"

"Guarding the North for you," replied Lord Eddard, before adding: "Your Grace."

The king laughed. "It is good to see that frozen face of yours. You and your family will always be friends of the crown."

When the king pulled Lord Eddard into a boisterous hug, Bran perceived warm swells of amiability emanate around the two men, who had years of shared history that translated to familiarity. Not everybody seemed to appreciate the friendship, though. Queen Cersei turned away, and the skin across her knuckles tightened for a brief moment. Instead of saying anything, she glanced at a blonde man in the white cloak of the Kingsguard. The fair-haired knight smiled at the queen; Bran wondered who he was.

"Ned, where are your children?" asked the king. "Bloody time that I get to meet them. Let's see what all the fuss is about, aye?"

Bran's father gestured at Robb and Sansa, both of whom stood next to him with stiff backs and practiced countenances. Lord Eddard smiled as he gestured to them. Already, Sansa was curtsying, and Robb was bending the knee - the picturesque epitome of courtliness.

"This is my son and heir, Robb," said Lord Eddard, introducing his eldest children. "And the older girl is called Sansa."

"Your Grace," said Sansa softly.

"What about the other two?" asked King Robert. "The younger lass and the cursed runt? Where are them?"

Lord Eddard frowned. "Well, Arya and Bran are -"

"We're here!" Arya squeaked. "Sorry, we got distracted!"

Grabbing Bran by the arm, Arya scurried towards their exasperated father. The sea of servants parted, and an embarrassed Bran and an emboldened Arya scuttled past the fair-haired Kingsguard, who gave Bran a quizzical look. In contrast, Sansa winced, aghast at her young siblings' tardiness, while Robb appeared amused by Arya's antics. Robb's expression hardened like frost, though, when he noticed Bran. The cold stare did not abate even when Bran and Arya took their allotted places next to their father.

"Your Grace," said Arya, as she performed a clumsy curtsy.

King Robert ignored Arya, focusing instead on Bran. Feeling the scrutiny, Bran automatically fell into a bow; he wished that the earth would swallow him whole. Almost anything would be preferable to this intense position. His nervousness weighed as much as a battleship when the king lifted Bran's head by the chin.

"So you're the one who burned the Winterfell sept, huh?" King Robert snorted. "For somebody who killed his mother and brothers, you seem much smaller than what the stories say."

Bran's throat parched; he felt sick. Instinctively, Lord Eddard squeezed Bran's shoulder and stepped forward, as though he were protecting Bran from a great beast.

"Those are merely rumours, Your Grace," said Ned Stark slowly. "The fire was an _accident_ which had nothing to do with Bran. I can vouch for that, on the Old Gods and the New."

Nonchalant, the king shrugged. "I only repeat what I heard, Ned. Stories about kinslaying stain as much as those about kingslaying." He snorted. "Isn't that right, Lannister? Care to add anything?"

King Robert looked straight at the blonde knight, whose identity Bran finally recollected. Judging from the emerald eyes and the angular face, the Kingsguard had to be Ser Jaime Lannister, the twin of Queen Cersei. The resemblance was uncanny, like looking into Myrrish glass. While the queen averted her gaze, Ser Jaime donned a sour smile which reminded Bran of a puckered lemon. The word 'kingslayer' stirred an almost imperceptible emotion inside of the knight.

"Your Grace, I have nothing to add," said Jaime Lannister. "If Lord Stark insists that his son is innocent of kinslaying, I'm inclined to believe the _honourable_ lord."

King Robert responded to Ser Jaime with an insult, before he talked to Bran's father about proceeding to the Winterfell Crypts. Although the queen protested and wanted to rest, the king held firm to his stubborn decision. Indeed, his love for the deceased Lyanna Stark and her marble tomb shone like Valyrian steel: nothing else could compare to it. Not even the queen herself. After King Robert and Lord Eddard departed for the catacombs, Arya rounded on Bran. She looked at him with plaintive empathy, when she jumped on him with a hug.

"I'm sorry," Arya said, her head against Bran's arm. "You shouldn't have to go through these accusations."

Bran shook his head. "Don't apologise. It had nothing to do with you, Arya. Only me."

* * *

Two days later, Bran sat on the windowsill of his room, surveying the vast expanses below him. Bran's room remained high above the fray, although his abode did not even compare to the hearth of his father's room. Lord Eddard Stark and his heir, Robb Stark, had the warmest rooms within the keep. According to legends, the First Men had erected Winterfell over hot springs, from which scalding water circulated through the keep's insides like capillaries. Those heated waters repelled the biting cold, bringing a hospitable warmth to the master bedroom. Bran's floor also maintained a comforting temperature, but it was nothing like his lord father's dwellings.

Lord Eddard's quarters were almost too large, though. Indeed, the commodious interior engulfed Ned Stark's sparse belongings and the man himself. The tangible presence of another person was missing in that room, and that absence resonated throughout the castle, like pain from a phantom limb. Bran's father did not speak of the lonely nights that he spent in his room, and whenever one of the vassal lords broached the topic of remarriage, Lord Eddard shut down any discussion.

"Father doesn't care for politics," murmured Bran, gripping an apple core within his hands. "Winter is coming, and according to Father, now is not the time for festivity."

Bran remembered when Wyman Manderly offered one of his granddaughters as a potential Lady Stark. With the terse stab of a comment, Lord Eddard simply said "no", his tone refusing to brook any negotiation. Despite Lord Manderly's generous offers, Ned Stark rebuffed the proposals, which ranged from the weasel women at the Crossing to the Massey maidens of the Stormlands. To the Northern bannermen, the continuing solitude of Bran's father flummoxed them more than the wild tales of the White Walkers and dark shrouds awakening beyond the Wall.

 _Dark shrouds…_ Terrified by some spectacle that they witnessed beyond the Wall, the rangers reported sightings of an unearthly creature which slithered across the driven snow. These black brothers quivered like newborns, but their fevered words painted a tale of a black shadow that trawled in the darkness. A shadow that embraced a sworn brother, siphoning from him until all that remained were ash and bones.

When Uncle Benjen told Bran's father, Lord Eddard dismissed the stories as fanciful exaggerations of frostbitten men. Even Uncle Benjen said that the men had gone mad. Bran sensed something else, though. Across Bran's dreams, a wisp of a name flickered like a mirage, a name that should have no meaning: _Dementor_.

Bran gritted his teeth. "I shouldn't know that word - that word makes no sense."

Swinging his legs back onto his bedroom floor, Bran bit into the apple. The tart sweetness filled his mouth, but Bran could not shake the bitter frustration that lingered in his thoughts. Throughout the past three years, Bran had experienced strange visions which he could not explain, fragmentary dreams which pieced together a puzzle. Bran _knew_ things, mysterious things that he shouldn't understand. But why? Why was he… different?

Although the images from his dreams were more nebulous than cloud fluff, one colour resonated with Bran's memory: dark-red, the shade of his mother's hair. Long, blazing tresses which wavered within a reflection.

"Kissed by fire," said Bran, trembling. "Fire that spreads over the ground, over the walls, over the doors… over the people."

Immediately, a jolt of splintering pain welted Bran's skull, as though his very nerve tips were alight. With a cry, Bran clutched his temples and sagged next to his bed. Absolute agony assailed him.

His eyes watered, but Bran's mind would not cease, shuddering with hallucinations: fire, _sentient fire_ , formed a thousand dragons, which roared… and a great serpent of flames lunged across shelves of discard and detritus. Panicked shouts boomed like a thunderstorm, and three youths snatched what seemed to broomsticks. A silver tiara swung into the conflagration; a sinister scream rended the air -

" _Aguamenti_!" Bran yelled, his tongue forming syllables that he did not comprehend.

A flash of light sparked from Bran's fingers, and water erupted all over the room. Streaming outward, a torrent blasted across the bedroom; steam hissed upon collision with the hot walls. As Bran slumped against a bedpost, he tried to catch his breath and process what had just happened. His lungs heaved under his ribcage, feeling as heavy as lead. What was… that? The pain around Bran's head had vanished, but an enfolding dread creeped up his spine.

Magic had died with Old Valyria and its remnants. When the Targaryens and their dragons withered into the next world, the Citadel declared that the age of the supernatural had ended. Other than Old Nan's yarns about greenseers and the First Men, no account of Stark sorcery existed. Disturbing incidents were transpiring, though. Indeed, Bran's father had seen the corpses of a direwolf mother and her pups strewn over gnarled roots, and Bran himself emanated tragedy all around him, including that fateful night from three years ago…

"Nobody else can know about this - thing," Bran said to himself. "They wouldn't understand. And people fear what they don't understand."

After he recomposed himself, Bran Stark stood up and threw the apple core out of the window. It was soaked in water anyway and practically inedible. Pacing around his room, Bran mulled over his choices. Whenever the unknown had plagued him, Bran tried to hide the vestiges of evidence that remained. Although his siblings never noticed, Bran wondered whether Father knew about Bran's… history.

Ned Stark had the obdurate conviction of a whetstone that Bran was innocent: no amount of rumours or gossiping would sway Bran's lord father. The one and only time that Maester Luwin had hesitated around Bran, Lord Eddard castigated the Maester for "heeding old wives' tales". But did Ned Stark… know? Does the Lord of Winterfell not know everything that occurred under his ancient roof?

"I've never created water before. That was new," muttered Bran. _I can't repeat ever that again, especially not while the King is around._

The solution was obvious: the library of Winterfell. Bran was not the greatest reader, but he hazarded that one of the library's antiquated scrolls may answer how and _why_ Bran conjured water. Even eleven year-olds knew that books held secrets that could unravel the most complex of mysteries. Resolute, Bran shrugged into a jerkin and raced out of the door. His plan did not proceed smoothly, though. When Bran arrived at the library, he was not alone.

Situated next to the widest table was a hunched figure. His head thatched with luminous hair, the man's swollen and blotchy face shone in the lamplight, revealing two mismatched eyes that examined Bran with veritable intelligence. Between the man's crooked nose and stubby fingers, the stranger carried a disjointed appearance which clung to his dwarfish form like rags on a peasant. If his diminutive height and Lannister colouring didn't specify enough, the man's lavish and crimson robes eliminated all doubt. This man had to be Tyrion Lannister, the younger brother of Cersei and Jaime.

"The Imp," blurted Bran, without thinking.

The moment that Bran opened his mouth, he regretted it. Embarrassment flushed Bran's face when Lord Tyrion raised an eyebrow at him.

"That was wrong of me," said Bran quickly. "I apologise, Lord Tyrion. I didn't mean any insult."

"An insult only cuts deep if one allows the wound to fester," replied Lord Tyrion, waving his hand. "I take no injury to what you said. Certain words lose their impact once you hear them for the hundredth time."

The dwarf closed the dusting tome that he was reading. From the title alone, Bran guessed that the book covered the mechanical findings from some Maester or another. Engineering was not a topic which interested Bran, although Lord Tyrion was perhaps more erudite than most men. While the stunted man leafed through a second volume, Bran shuffled towards a large shelf of books that reached the cobbled ceiling. In deadened silence, Bran stretched on his tiptoes and picked a hardcover from one of the higher shelves.

" **The Book of Lost Books** by Archmaester Marwyn," muttered Bran, as he cracked open the heavy book.

Delineating the prophetic dreams of Aenar Targaryen's virginal daughter, the treatise described the myriad ways through which the Doom arrived at Valyria. Like volcanic ash, the Doom snuffed out the candlelight of the fantastical Freehold, which faded into history. The Freehold's descendents, the Targaryens, may have owned some magical prowess, but nobody could ascertain the true nature of magical lineage. Who inherited prophetic power? Why did Daenys the Dreamer fear that a great darkness would submerge the entire world?

Lord Tyrion caught a glimpse of Bran's book and whistled. Bran attempted to hide the cover, but he was too slow.

"Archmaester Marwyn? Many at the Citadel call him 'Marwyn the Mage', because his dalliances into the esoteric almost veer into the supernatural," said Tyrion, stroking his chin. "His words are not the easiest to read. An interesting choice of reading material for a child of only eleven namedays, don't you think?"

"I like reading," said Bran unconvincingly.

Without saying anything, Lord Tyrion scrutinised Bran, as if he were the most fascinating insect under a Maester's glass. The Imp thankfully did not press Bran for any more answers, however. For a brief moment, Bran and Tyrion Lannister sat in the relative quiet, until the dwarf proved to be as gregarious and talkative as his reputation suggested.

"Your book is certainly not a poor one," said Tyrion speculatively. "Marwyn writes rather persuasively about Daenys Targaryen's dreams, including the one that foretells that the world will fall to the Stranger himself."

Despite his reservations, Bran couldn't help himself. "The Stranger? What do you mean?"

"The Stranger, the Black Goat, the Weeping Lady - different names in different religions for the Many-Faced God," said Tyrion, as his shrewd gaze flitted onto Bran. "And the Many-Faced God has but one true name, and that name is Death."

At that moment, a vivid image of a stick, a stone, and a shroud reverberated inside Bran's memories. _The true master does not seek to run away from Death_ , whispered a hazy voice. A chill crawled up Bran's back, like the winter's cold.

"If the singers could see us now, they would certainly write a ballad about us," mused Lord Tyrion. "The Debaucherous Imp and the Cursed Runt, ensconcing in a library away from judgmental eyes. How poetic?"

"We're not the same, my lord."

"Perhaps," said Tyrion Lannister. "All families have their shames, however. And the sooner you accept that truth, the sooner you can hold a shield that others cannot penetrate."

Tautening, Bran asked, "What's your impenetrable shield? How do you guard yourself?"

"Mine is exploring and enjoying myself," answered Lord Tyrion, with a catlike smirk. "I partake in the world's plethora delights, from the sweetwines of Dorne to the libraries of Oldtown. In fact, I plan on ticking off another delight while I'm in this frozen wasteland."

"And what's that?"

"Why, the Wall, of course," said Tyrion excitedly. "I've always wanted to stand and piss on the edge of the world. These books declare that the Wall touches the sky itself and that Brandon the Builder built it from shore to shore."

The dwarf seemed wistful. "After I visit the Wall, mayhaps I will sail to east and meander through the jungles of Yi Ti, where basilisks are rumoured to nest." Lord Tyrion nodded. "Torrick of Lorath claims that looking into the eyes of a basilisk can entrance even the most cynical of men. It must be quite the sight."

"That's a lie," said Bran flatly.

Lord Tyrion looked askance at Bran, who reddened but persevered.

"Looking indirectly into a basilisk's eyes will petrify you, subduing you into a deep coma," explained Bran in a careful tone. "A direct look will kill you instantly. 'Entrancing' isn't the right word."

"And how do you know all this?" inquired Lord Tyrion.

"I just… do," said Bran, unwilling to divulge that he somehow knew and dreamed things beyond ordinary cognition.

Returning his hardcover to the shelves, Tyrion Lannister waddled around the floor and did not reply to Bran's unsatisfactory claims. Instead, he extinguished the oil lamp on the table, plunging much of the library into ink-black darkness. Only a half of the dwarf's face was illuminated; his appearance was almost repulsive, and Bran flinched.

"You are a special boy, Brandon Stark," said Tyrion languidly. "More interesting than any kinslaying rumour implies. When you are older, come visit me in the Westerlands. Talking to you has been the highlight of my trip so far, methinks."

Lord Tyrion adjusted the golden badge of the Lannister Lion on his tunic, before he tottered to the door. Flashing Bran a smile, the dwarf exited the library in one, unhurried motion. After Tyrion Lannister's footsteps petered out, Bran tugged on his dark brown hair. Based on his progress through Archmaester Marwyn's book, Bran couldn't find even an inkling of his mysterious… transpirings. Bran was getting nowhere fast, and he decided that perhaps he would shelve this search for another day. Maybe after a good night's rest.

Bran slid Marwyn's tome back into its place and then dashed out of the library tower. When he raced down the stairs and bolted into the wide outdoors, the cool, crisp air greeted him like a mother's kiss. Bran grinned. No matter what weighed on his thoughts, Bran felt refreshed whenever he stepped into the courtyard. Winterfell was always his home.

In the distance, Bran spotted the Broken Tower, running towards it. Although the former watchtower had all but fallen into disuse, Bran fastened a certain fondness of the tower in his heart. The upper structures had collapsed from a lightning strike, but the beaconed balcony underneath the stony gargoyles remained stalwart throughout rain and storm. Up there, Bran had views that could not be matched.

Hopping up the wall of the armoury, Bran danced over the thatched roofs until he landed on the mortars which affixed the stones to the First Keep. With practiced ease, Bran leapt across the bricks and clung like a Wintertown acrobat to the railings, when he heard grunts and groans. The voices were smothered, but Bran discerned that a man and a woman were inside the Broken Tower. Even though Bran swore that the pair of them sounded recognisable, he couldn't pinpoint their exact names.

Cautiously, Bran veered towards the open sill, where he eavesdropped on the adults inside the tower.

"You were right - the _honourable_ Ned Stark refused to be Hand of the King," the man said glibly. "Ever since since wife's passing, he has not left this frigid wilderness, and he is not going to do it any time soon."

"Robert may still force him to accept the position," said the woman. "Not even a boyhood friend can ignore his king's missive. If Robert wants something, he will get it."

"Your anxieties are getting the better of you." The man yawned. "Robert is too busy frothing over the Targaryen girl and her three dragons. He poses no danger to us."

Bran froze. Every pore in his body urged him to run, but he positioned too perilously to evade unaccosted. Who were these two people? And who was this Targaryen girl?

"As long as Lysa Arryn roosts in the Eyrie, our lives will always be in danger." The woman's voice lowered. "She knows too much, and what if she knew her dead husband's secrets? She could easily tell Ned Stark: House Arryn and House Stark are connected by marriage."

"Lysa Arryn is a stranger to the North," said the man idly. "When her sister died, so did her connection to Ned Stark. Robert's great alliance has withered to a husk."

"And an even greater alliance will be forged when that harlot, Margaery Tyrell, plants her thorns into Edmure Tully's bed," snapped the woman.

The man stood up and poured himself a drink. "That theory is all but hearsay, and we all know it."

"Any Great House which isn't Lannister could destroy us," retorted the woman, with the faintest touch of fright. "Mace Tyrell is a glorified buffoon, but his mother still has her wits. She could easily arrange a match."

Crouching on the stones, Bran found a small crevice where he could place his right foot. In order to reach it, he had to approach the window sill, though. Bran bound his courage like a badge and crawled forward. Meanwhile, the woman continued to rant.

"The Tully trouts swim upstream for marriage alliances," said the woman. "And with the long-passed death of Catelyn Stark, they seek another Great House with whom to align. Highgarden is their _neighbour_."

The man chuckled. "You sound jealous of Margaery Tyrell? I didn't know you had a penchant for trout - fish does not seem to be your sort of meal."

 _Just a little bit closer_ , thought Bran, as he inched towards the crevice in the wall. _Nearly there…_

A wet sound came from the window. Stifled laughter resonated indoors, and the woman hitched her voice, as though she were aching. The wet noises loudened, when the woman began to moan; Bran felt uncomfortable. Although he was not certain what the man was doing to the woman, Bran intuited that he needed to leave - and now.

Finally, Bran was in range. He grasped the rock and tugged himself onto the furthest edge of the windowsill. Before Bran could climb down, he inadvertently saw the inside of the Broken Tower, though. And a small gasp escaped his lips. Tousled together, the man and the woman were writhing against each other, their golden limbs splayed out like ornate fans. All of their clothes were discarded higgledy-piggledy, and the man heaved on top of the woman, whose gilded hairnet dangled from her long tresses.

Even from this angle, Queen Cersei and her twin-brother, Jaime Lannister, were unmistakeable.

Rolling on top of his sister, Jaime Lannister caressed the queen's chest, when he spotted Bran. The man's eyes widened, and he pulled off Cersei as though she were on wildfire. The next moment was spinning chaos. Bran tried to fling himself out of the way, but Ser Jaime was quicker. Before Bran could flee, the Kingsguard seized him by the shirt and hurled him inside the tower. Skidding on the wooden panels, Bran winced and backed away from the queen, who was staring at him with horror.

"He saw us!" said Cersei tremulously. "Jaime, he _saw_ us."

Disregarding the queen, Jaime Lannister helped Bran to his feet and plopped him next to the open window. A sick feeling unfurled through Bran, who balanced himself on the stones.

"Are you okay?" asked Jaime. "You're not too hurt, are you?"

When Bran remained nonresponsive, the knight sighed and spoke to him with strained self-hate: "How old are you?"

"Eleven," said Bran, trying to keep those turmoiling emotions out of his voice. "I'll turn twelve within two months."

His expression tightening, Jaime turned to Queen Cersei who shivered like a leaf. Almost imperceptibly, she told Jaime that family came first. The knight loomed over Bran, and a conflicted look steeled into resolve.

"The things I do for love," said Jaime Lannister, who then thrust Bran out the window.

Bran plunged downward through sheer air. He was flying, and his clothes billowed around him, as a cry wrenched from his throat. Blistering, the wind whipped at him when the time itself began to slow. Seconds of the hourglass percolated like grains of sand, and a thousand voices assaulted him. _You are the worthy possessor of the Hallows, the Vanquisher of Death…_ The courtyard zoomed towards Bran, who choked from the echoes clanging between his temples. _You're the Master of Death… the Boy-Who-Lived_.

The Boy-Who-Lived… The boy who survived.

Involuntary words fell from Bran's mouth, as the ground rushed at him. A single spell from another era, another time, summoned through desperation and a clawing desire to survive:

" _Arresto Momentum_!"

Darkness overwhelmed Bran. High above, a lightning-bolt rippled across the sky, streaking like a grief-red comet. Murders of ravens cawed and broke through the trees.

 **~~End of Chapter One~~**


End file.
